My father died on April 19th, the day after my birthday. I found out on April 25th. I called my sister to see how my father was doing. I knew he was quite ill. She said, "I can't believe I haven't called you yet!" The funeral had already happened.
I believe she was protecting me from the certain family drama that would have occurred if I tried to attend. I don't think I would have, but you don't know until faced with the decision. He had written me many years ago that I was not his daughter, I would be turned away from his deathbed, turned away from his funeral and be disinherited. This was, as so often happens, about money. I told him I planned to use the $10,000 from my late grandmother (his money) to adopt a child. He told me emphatically I could not use his mother's money for that purpose. I would not back down.
He was an abusive alcoholic. A strange man. My sister and I agree he was most likely a borderline sociopath. I won't go into detail here. I will instead, show a picture of him with baby me and a picture of him walking me down the aisle. Perhaps you can tell, I was crying as I walked. Everyone thought it was nerves, stress. No. I was crying because he was touching me. I should have told my husband we had to elope. But, no.
Does this have anything to do with being an artist? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. I don't know.
